


ever since god made me bleed

by IcanSeeTheStars



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Duelling, Fights, Gen, God Complex, God Wilbur Soot, How Do I Tag, Light Angst, Overuse of italics, Villain Wilbur Soot, omg the ending is so dumb i hate it, rated teen and up for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcanSeeTheStars/pseuds/IcanSeeTheStars
Summary: basically I rewatched the mole video and went, ahaha wonder if I could make this unnecessarily dramatic ( the answer is yes, yes i can. )title from you are the coffin by flatsound
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 19





	ever since god made me bleed

**Author's Note:**

> this was so long in the doc but its so short on here I'm gonna cry 
> 
> I mean take things as you want ig but I wrote everything here entirely platonic. If anyone involved is uncomfortable with me writing this please let me know and I will not hesitate to take this down.
> 
> a/n   
> coming back jan 8 '21 edited a little bit and fixed so much cus i kinda actually know how to format lol - so reading should be semi bearable now hopefully. The beginning is really bad and so is the very end but give it a chance its not all entirely completely awful kinda i promiseee

I always hated the dark. Maybe it’s because I like to be aware of my surroundings, knowing where everyone is at all times. Where the best exits are, knowing I’m able to do the things I have to do, should the need arise.

I don’t like surprises, ironic I know, seeing as spontaneous is the one word most would use to describe me.

There are other ways of seeing of course. That’s the one benefit of being forced to live almost completely blind, my other senses have never been better. I’ve learned to adapt to every cruel condition he throws me into. I can taste the air before a flood, (blueberries, sweet, almost tricking you into believing something good will happen. nothing good ever happens when he’s in charge) I can feel the vibrations in the dirt when the other moles pass me by, at this point I’m only afraid of having to look down at my own hands once they’re gone. And him. I hate that I’m afraid of him but I can’t deny it. I’ve survived so long on pure skill but I know all my training will mean nothing once we come face to face (which we will. No one else can kill me. My fate is inevitable).

He’s unstable, unpredictable. I’ve seen all too much through fingers and around dirt walls. I watch my friends, enemies, acquaintances, all get their chance to impress him. They consider it construction, assassination, necessary sacrifice. I may have lost my vision but I’m not yet fully blind; We both consider it entertainment. Whatever I do, it has to be perfect, not ‘too bold’ or ‘too boring.’

I don’t like referring to him as a god as I firmly believe it’s a title that should be earned, at this point there’s nothing he could ever do to truly deserve that sort of respect. He is a god though, he is, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that they lack self control. Intrigue a god, they can never resist a challenge, even one they know they can’t win. They’re fools. He’s a fool.

-

-

-

I spend all my time working, digging. Isn’t that my purpose as a mole? Scooping shovels full of dirt until my arms fall off. Clearing out endless tunnels that wind around and around until you’re disoriented and delusional beyond recovery and so you curl up into a little ball in some dark corner. You know you’re bound to be picked off soon and if not by other moles then you’ll surely fall victim to the dirt itself. Stay still for long enough and it might as well absorb you. But you are so tired, and the dirt is so very soft. Is this the only reason why I am here? surely not.

I am so hungry.

-

-

-

I have no idea how long it’s been. He gave us no clocks, no watches, it's not like we can see the sun from dozens of blocks below the surface. We don’t have scheduled meals either, I can’t even rely on the needs of my slowly deteriorating body for any sort of structure. I was so desperate, I almost risked visiting the surface at one point, I knew it was unlikely I would return but going out with a fight would be better than rotting away where my body would never be found.

I’d managed to climb almost to the top of the winding staircase when a hand reached out and grabbed onto my wrist. I couldn’t help but notice how his fingers reached all the way around it, I was nothing but skin and bones. I raised my club I’d fashioned out of scraps, really it wasn’t much more than a stick, but it’d done the job countless times before. I was numb, and unafraid to do it again,, that is,, until I looked into his eyes. They flashed with recognition, (of course, that was when I learned I was somewhat of a legend among the population) and then sadness. I realized the truth just as soon as he did; without a doubt, if i killed him, we would both die.

His hand still firmly holding me in place, he reached into a small leather satchel hanging loosely at his waist and pulled out a carrot.

“Here, you need to eat.”

I gladly accepted his offering, and without a word slowly turned around and descended into the dark. He trailed behind, an unspoken agreement in the air between us. That was when things started to get better.

We fell into a simple routine, We would work together building our home, I would defend it, he would gather food and resources. I never did learn how he managed to survive the surface so consistently, but he figured something out so I didn’t question it. Apparently the carrots contained all the nutrients I needed because soon enough I was almost back to a healthy weight, and I was just as strong if not more. I learned his name was ender, and nothing else; we didn’t talk much except for in the nighttime. Laying opposite each other on the beds we’d sculpted out of clay we’d talk of our pasts, our future plans, our dreams and our fears.

He loved to cook. I didn’t know his favorite color, but I knew he was training to be a chef before everything went south. He was just like me, both of us having been uprooted from our lives almost 4 years ago and being forced through challenge upon challenge to please the gods. We’d come out on top every time, we’d learned and trained and adapted and we just wanted it to end.

I assume it was sometime around June, when the air was warm and the soil was always wet. Ender came home with a black eye and a gash in his side. He told me he had run into some trouble in one of the smaller tunnels.

“I was able to trade my way out, but I want to be able to hold my own next time it happens.”

I agreed to train him, and over the next two weeks we spent a good chunk of our time running, practicing, sparring, etc. He was a fast learner and though he hadn’t yet beat me, I very quickly stopped going easy on him during our “fights.” We were strong, we were sheltered, we were well fed, and somewhere along the way I stopped thinking so much about getting out, and more about what I could do here. I started to believe that we could build a life, we had built a life.

-

-

-

We were sitting on the couch. It was small and cramped, I had no right to complain, I was the one who built it. My feet were tucked up underneath me and my head was resting on his shoulder as he messed with my hair, making tiny braids and immediately undoing them. He was so warm and the air was so cold and maybe if things had been different I could have stayed there forever.

He started to ramble about how he wished there was television in this realm. His brother works on film sets and as a kid he got to tour all sorts of different sci-fi movies and meet a couple of his favorite actors. He told me if he hadn’t gotten into cooking he would have been a writer. He and his brother had always wanted to work together to produce a movie. They had even started writing the script before Ender had gotten taken away. I was fast asleep before I got to find out what it was going to be about.

“Hey you gotta get up, I can’t move”

“Mmm.. what..?” I rubbed my eyes and lifted my head, “what time is it?”

“Don’t worry you didn’t sleep more than an hour or two, I wanna go on a walk though. We’ve been in this hole all day.”

“You can go, I’m still tired.”

I felt him shrug and get up. I moved over to fill the space he left, now leaning against the armrest which was significantly less comfortable. I heard his footsteps slowly get softer and then disappear. My eyes stayed closed the whole time, I didn’t see him leave.

Not being able to tell time is always a pain, especially so soon after you wake up. When it’s always dark, and you’re always tired, and you can’t tell if you’ve been out for twenty minutes or twenty hours. I couldn’t tell if he’d been out for twenty minutes or twenty hours. It's funny how you can get by just fine alone for years and then suddenly, as soon as someone comes into your life for just a couple of months, you become so unbearably dependent. I never liked the term “other half” but once you spend enough time with a person it does start to feel empty without them. The longer they’re away, the more you can feel the effects. Let me tell you, the absence is always a whole lot more noticeable than the presence when they’re there with you.

He wasn’t there with me.

I told myself this was what we had trained for. He was almost as skilled a fighter as I was. Any other mole could barely compete. Maybe I knew that was the problem, that no one down here could give him any trouble. Maybe it was time to consider the major detail I’d pushed down to the back of my mind in favor of blissful ignorance.

_I’m overreacting._

Maybe I should think about the corpses I find in the back alleys, the quickly depleting population, the fact that there were never that many of us to begin with.

_I wasn’t asleep that long, he’s on a walk._

Why did I ever try to build a home to begin with? I knew that it couldn’t last. I knew that even if we were the last two there could only ever be one.

_He’ll be home soon._

You're so deep in denial, you’re so far up your own ass. You thought you could live out your little domestic fantasies in the pits of hell.

_He’s fine._

Look what happened because of it. Look who got hurt. Look who’s still alive. Look who’s not.

_He’s not._

-

-

-

I wish I could tell you my first mistake, but I’ve made too many. I should’ve gone on the walk with him, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, I shouldn't have gotten so comfortable. I should’ve trained him harder, we should have made a plan. I shouldn’t have made a house, I should’ve killed him that very first day on the stairs, it would have hurt less.

I’m crying. I think I’m crying. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening. I can't see anything, it’s so blurry. Are those tears, when was the last time I’ve eaten? I can’t move. I can’t stay still.

_I can't_

-

-

-

My life is some sort of sick joke because now he’s at the top of the stairs and I’m not ready. I thought we would be able to face him together. Ender had to face him on his own and he didn’t make it. I have to face him on my own. I have to make it. I hear him talking to himself, possibly his friends, or an audience. He couldn’t make me care.

He finds the sculptures we worked so hard on, admiring our modern art. Does he think this is validation, that I crave his affirmation? His approval? It’s almost funny.

Now he’s in our living room and why is he so clean.. His jacket looks freshly ironed, not a speck of dirt on him, no trace of blood on his hands. He’s watching me stare at him, emotionless; I’m desperately searching for something, anything humanizing. I want to know he felt all the people he killed. I want to know he looked into their eyes, held their bodies in his arms. He’s not human.

The tone is so painfully unfitting I want to scream. There’s a friendly smile plastered on his face as he asks me for a tour. I wish he wasn’t so genuine, his eyes are soft, his tone is curious, and he doesn’t fucking know.

I bet he doesn’t know your name ender, I bet he didn’t even ask. You’re the most diplomatic person I’ve ever met, you could talk and manipulate your way out of anything. I bet he didn’t even give you a chance.

I hover behind his shoulder, resisting the urge to wrap my hands around his neck and watch the life drain out of his face, slowly, of course. I’d savor the image, test how long I can make it last.  
He traces his fingertips along the bed frame, brushing right over where I carved your name.

We return to the living room where he settles down on the right side of the couch, crossing his legs and stretching his arms out behind him. He’s sitting there, eyes closed, grinning, in the seat of a dead man. Internally I’m screaming at him, telling him to get up, to leave and never come back, spewing insults and curses I didn’t even know existed. He couldn’t hear me though, so the only evidence of distress are the tears collecting at the corners of my eyes, which are much too shadowed and sunken to tell anyways. Instead, I pick up a spare piece of plywood and a knife, quickly carving out my message. I know what I want to say now, I know what I need to do. A minute later I’m finished, shoving the board in his face; short, sweet, and to the point. His eyes scan over the wood and his mouth twists ever so slightly. Suddenly I’m nervous.

Wilbur, I challenge you to a duel, because you killed EnderSaltz.

-

-

-

This could go one of two ways; I’m either dead in the next half a second, or he accepts my offer and I die but make it slightly slower and slightly more painful. I blink, fairly certain it's been half a second and I’m still here, he’s hesitating. I brace myself, I’m not afraid of death but this is not how I wanted to go, after surviving so much, dying simply because I failed to meet his worthless expectations. Call me what you want, but I’m not going to let my death be the same as all the others. I will not be just another name on a sign.

“Okay.” He nods and oh my fucking god he’s still smiling. This is not a duel he’s going to win.

He snaps his fingers, I blink and suddenly we're outside. I’m feeling like I’m going to throw up and my body is tingling. Realizing I’m mortal, I definitely wasn’t built for teleportation of all things and I’m probably being torn apart atom by atom this very moment, but there was way too much adrenaline coursing through my veins for me to even remotely notice any pain I might have been in besides a slight stinging sensation.

I successfully manage to unglue my eyes from the dirt (without passing out. yay.) in order to meet his. Something’s changed. He’s no longer shimmering, something I’ve never really noticed before. There’s a few wrinkles in his shirt, a strand or two of hair sticking up, he no longer appears untouchable. Once again, I remind myself what’s at stake, I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am.

He combs his fingers through his hair, and then brings them back down to fiddle with the string of his bow. I bend down to retrieve my weapon from the dirt. It feels wrong, the wood is too smooth, the curve perfectly measured, the string taut without being too stiff. It’s unnatural. Wilbur's bow is built the exact same, he’s clearly practiced with this weapon and what more could I expect.

It’s a god weapon, he’s a god.

Checks out. He doesn’t give me any time to warm up. Time seems to slow down as he reaches over his shoulder and into his sheath, expertly knocking the arrow. I’ve never frozen up like this before. The universe has never exactly been kind to me before either. My vision is blurry and dark but somehow I can see every vein, every bone in his hand as he pulls back the string and releases it with a snap. I focus in on it as it vibrates back and forth in slow motion. I hear the arrow before I see it. I only catch the tail end of the snowy white feather as it whizzes past my ear.

He missed. He fucking missed.  
Damn, between my lack of experience, malnutritioned body, and weakened eyesight, he might actually live for the better half of a minute.

Seeing him fail so miserably gives me some sort of jump start and I launch my first arrow, hitting him square in the chest. We trade shots. I hit, he misses, I hit, he hits, I hit, he misses. He lands one in my thigh, it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. The arrows are tiny and sharp, I can't feel much, but most likely, I was internally bleeding and badly. He’s visibly weak, yet he’s still fighting back, while bombarding me with empty threats and pathetic self affirmations. And oh what an inconvenient time to realize that all of this means absolutely nothing. Killing him won’t fix anything, because I’m not actually killing him. What does he lose, a fraction of his honor which’ll be patched up by his massive ego anyways. He’s a god, and he won’t lose his life, that's for sure. What do I lose? probably my life anyways. And what do I win? Bragging rights? Is this justice or revenge? Was there ever really a reason for challenging him or do I just not know how to deal with my fucking emotions? I guess I am still a kid, after all.

There are tears stinging the corners of my eyes and so I squeeze them shut. I have one arrow left and I might as well waste it, I let it fly completely blind. My eyes stay closed, I wait for the sensation of blood dripping down my neck, a suddenly sore arm, a sledgehammer to the gut, but it doesn’t come. Hesitantly, I force myself to open my eyes and immediately regret it. There’s a blinding light directly in front of me but I don’t allow myself to blink, instead staring until my vision decides to focus itself.

Am I dead?

My eyes do focus eventually, and feeling returns to my limbs. I’m still clutching the bow, so hard my knuckles are turning white. I shift my legs a little bit, embracing the soft squish of soil beneath me. Wilbur’s back in god form, and I’m alive. But now I know for sure that I won’t be for long, because he places a diamond shovel into my free hand.

“For you”  
 _…_

“You did so well.”

_He doesn’t mean that._

“I am so proud of you.”

_Another lie._

“Go on, dig.”

For once, I’m realizing, I don't want to die. I don't want to leave, and not because I've been through too much. Not because I’ve survived this long and fought so hard. Not because I’m a stubborn child who overly dedicates himself to worthless goals because he doesn’t understand his own values. Right now, I want to live for the sake of being alive. There’s no one left for me here, but maybe, maybe one day there will be. Right now though, right now I can stay alive for me.

I push the shovel back towards him.  
Which may have been a mistake because he presses his lips together into a thin line and narrows his eyes. He stays calm, but it's obvious I’ve pissed him off.

“I think you misheard me. Dig”

That one’s not a request, that's an order. I oblige. As fast as my arms are capable of - which is pretty fast with the benefits of top tier equipment - I dig a small hole and drop the shovel into it. I look back at him with wide eyes.

Kill me now, I dare you.

Metaphorical high ground won’t be enough, and thankfully there's a dirt tower directly behind me. Little known fact, when you go down in tunnels, at some point you gotta go back up, which after months of living underground makes you into a halfway decent climber. I scale the build, and sit lazily on top, my legs dangling over the edge, staring at him with the same look as before.

Once again, kill me. I dare you.

“Jump”

How funny. I stand up, it's a long way down. I jump, landing right back in the same space. He laughs. Good sign?

“Jump off.”

Oh.. ok. Not as good of a sign. At this point I’ve pushed my luck too far, I either die of fall damage or hubris, and I’d much prefer the latter. Quickly attaching a small platform a foot or two beneath me, I bounce down on to that. Third time’s the charm.

I can’t scream, I can’t move, I can't make any noise. My entire body feels like it was simultaneously struck by seven different bolts of lightning and it won't fucking stop. I can’t tell if I’m dying or if I’m dead and if I’m still in the process I take back everything I said about wanting to be alive. I want it to be over. I want to die. I want it to stop. I want to be nothing.

I get my wish, because it stops. I wish I could narrate this part, say what I was feeling, what I was thinking, but there was nothing. Nothing at all for an unresolved amount of time.  
And then I was conscious again; conscious, breathing, in so much pain but I was there. I was alive.

I’m not sure why Wilbur changed his mind, maybe he was bored, he wanted more for later. Maybe it was an honor thing from the duel. I hope though, I hope he managed to feel some sort of regret, some ounce of empathy. That’s what makes us human.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic here and I'm a super inexperienced writer so please please please give me criticism and advice. Also if you actually liked it give me suggestions on what to write next because I'm bored and have zero inspiration


End file.
